(Tolkien Time: 55 years after the death of the Dragon)
Nobody noticed the newcomer enter the Prancing Pony that cold winter's night. Why should they? He was just one of the many travelers to stop for a drink and a night or two at the inn before setting off again to who-knows-where. Although this was a rather tall Man…
Bruidhor, clad in traveler’s garb with his armor hidden underneath, had left his horse with the stable-hand outside the inn. He barely even registered the fact that the servant was a Halfling from the children’s fables he heard when he was a boy; he had seen too many supposed legends since he left Gondor to be surprised easily. Bruidhor glanced around the packed tavern as he entered, coughing a little at the smoke of the leaves the inhabitants of this area seemed fond of burning and sucking from pipes. Foreigners.
The exile walked up to the bar. “Ah! Good evening, Master!” said the rather thin balding man standing behind the counter. “What’ll it be?” “A room for tonight, and whatever is for dinner,” Bruidhor said briskly. “Ah, yessir, ‘ere you are, sir,” the bartender said, handing him a key. “The room’s up the stairs and at the end o’ the hall, sir, an’ that’ll be a piece o’ silver fer it all.” The Gondorian handed him the coin, which was one of the traveler’s last.
“Now,” the thin Bree-lander informed him, “my son’ll go get your room ready. Where is that boy? Barliman!” he shouted, prompting a rather fat lad of about eighteen to run up. “Go get room twelve ready.” “Yessir,” the young man said quickly before running down the hall. “Wait! Bar-! He’s run off without the keys,” the bartender huffed. “Forgetful boy. That’ll cause a lotta trouble some time, you mark my words!” He ran off after his son.
Bruidhor stared at the innkeeper as he hustled down the hall, once again marveling at the oddities of foreigners. He shook his head and began skirting around the busy tavern to an unoccupied table at the back corner. He sat down and waited for his meal to arrive, paying little attention to the other occupants – Men, Dwarves, even a few members of the Fair Folk, he had seen them all before. Even the newly-discovered Halflings seemed of little interest.
As he often did when he was bored, Bruidhor began reminiscing about his travels.
After leaving Minas Tirith, he had spent five whole years travelling Middle-earth, with much of that time being uneventful wandering. There were a few exciting moments: The ex-captain was nearly beheaded by wild Men in Dunland, almost froze to death in the Misty Mountains, and, just two weeks ago, was held prisoner in a Goblin camp in the Lone Lands.
But he mostly wandered from town to town, looking for a place where he…just felt like he belonged. He had tried to start a new life in several places. A few villages in Rohan, Laketown, Dale, and the like. But he never felt what he was looking for.
As he sat in the Pony, Bruidhor realized that he was running out of options. The sea was drawing closer with every step the wanderer took. He felt in his heart that he would never be at peace anywhere but the one place he could never return to. He sighed deeply as he remembered the beauty of the Great River Anduin winding through the canals of Osgiliath and the splendor of the White City of Minas Tirith.
“Well, now, that don’t sound too good,” a female voice said in front of him. Startled out of his musings, Bruidhor looked up quickly to see a waitress with a plate of venison and potatoes looking at him. She grinned at his surprised expression. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle ya,” she said, pushing back her curly black hair. “I was just bringin’ you your dinner.” She had to lean over to place the plate in front of him. “Thank you,” he muttered quietly. “Ya wanna drink with that?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before leaving to fetch one.
Bruidhor watched her curvy, slightly chubby figure. She was back soon, and sat a mug down in front of him. She then stared at him for some time. A little unnerved by her intense, green-eyed gaze, Bruidhor said “What?” a bit louder than he meant to.
She grinned again, an expression she seemed fond of. “Sorry. I was trying ta figure out where you came from. You Gondorian?” Bruidhor looked at the barmaid, a bit surprised. “…Yes,” he said after a bit. “How did you know?” “Well, we don’t get much of your kind here, but I’m pretty good at judgin’ where folks are from, if I do say so myself. I could tell by your accent, for one thing. An’ you got the look of one, too.”
She leaned in close, looking serious. “But you wanna know how I could really tell? Bruidhor looked at her curiously. ”How?”
The grin was back. “’Cause you’re so tall! Not even Elves have to duck under the door, an’ there always at least six feet tall. Meanwhile, if you didn’t duck, you’d of cracked your skull!”
Bruidhor stared at her for a few seconds, then burst out laughing, causing several patrons to look oddly at him. Foreigners, all the Hobbits thought disdainfully.
Still laughing hard, Bruidhor threw his arms around the barmaid and hugged her. “…Oh!” she exclaimed, a surprised, confused half-smile on her face. Regaining control of himself, Bruidhor released the girl. “My apologies,” he told her, still chuckling. “But it has been a very long time since I laughed.” He got on one knee and, in Gondorian style, knelt before her. “I am Bruidhor of Minas Tirith,” he introduced himself. “Oh…well,” said the waitress, giving a small curtsey, “I’m Callie Oakheart…of Combe.” Bruidhor stood up and sat in his chair. “Thank you for what you have done for me tonight. May we meet again, Callie Oakheart of Combe.” Callie blushed a bit. “Oh, we will…um, I mean, goodnight! Enjoy your stay at the Prancing Pony!”
She bustled away, looking rather dazed, but also with a small smile on her lips.
As Bruidhor watched her go, he felt something he had not felt since he left the White City, five long years ago – belonging. Well, he thought to himself, I think I just may stay another night or two here…wait, what’s this town called, anyways?
